Counterforce

Chapter Eleven

Deep within the bowels of the Vulkan, Senior Lieutenant Vasili Leonov was in the process of “inspecting the portion of the sub that held the missile tubes, known as the taiga. The cavernous compartment was empty except for Weapons Chief Yuri Chuchkin, who was following Leonov. Their steps echoed off the narrow metal walkway as they passed by the bases of the sixteen missile tubes, placed eight on each side. Beyond, the constant faraway hum of the vessel’s engines droned incessantly.

As the senior lieutenant passed the silo marked, 4, he caught sight of a greasy rag sticking out from the silo’s support cowling. He halted and studied it with unbelieving eyes. Yuri Chuchkin noticed his distraction and cautiously asked, “Is something the matter, Comrade? “

Leonov pointed to the cowling and replied with a disgusted shake of his head, “Is this the way your men prepare their stations for inspection?

Such sloppiness is inexcusable! If the maintenance of the SS-N-18s themselves is as slipshod as this compartment’s interior, we’ll be lucky to get even a single warhead airborne.”

Chuchkin reached out and grabbed the offending rag and briefly inspected its surface.

“I am sorry, sir. It’s only a towel used to clean off excess grease from the sealant gaskets. I can guarantee you that the integrity of the missiles is in no way compromised.” “That makes no difference!” Leonov shouted.

“Leaving such a rag behind is only indicative of your crew’s general carelessness. The simplest mistakes have a way of producing the most dire consequences.

Remember this, Comrade, and never let it happen again.”

Doing his best to accept the rebuke, Chuchkin lowered his eyes.

“You are right, sir. I will speak to the men and get to the bottom of this.”

“We must all have pride in our service,” Leonov said.

“Such careless mistakes should never happen.

Now, did you complete the warhead coordinate changes as I requested?”

“Of course, sir. They have been entered into the computer and triple-checked for accuracy.”

“Well, check them again. Comrade Chuchkin. A careless mistake in this process could be disastrous.”

Chuchkin straightened his shoulders and nodded.

“I will do that, sir. I must admit that it represents a radically new set of target coordinates from our previous ones. I imagine it all has to do with those new ground-burrowing warheads that we recently took on.”

“That is none of your concern. Comrade.” The Senior Lieutenant turned away and continued his inspection.

Further down the walkway, Chuchkin said lightly, “Of course, this coordinate change is nothing but one of those endless alert exercises anyway. Most probably I’ll be changing them back within a matter of hours.”

“You never know, do you Comrade Chuchkin?”

Shrinking from Leonov’s icy words, Chuchkin attempted to change the direction of their conversation.

“You certainly gave me a scare back in Petropavlovsk, sir. For a while there, I thought that you might go A.W.O.L..”

This unexpected comment caught Leonov up short.

Slowly, he turned to face the chief.

“I understand that you were one of those who initiated a search of the city on my behalf. I appreciate this gesture and truly regret that a moment of self weakness made it necessary. I learned much during this personal crisis, Comrade. You can be assured that it will take more than a woman to divert me from my duty to the Rodina. They are nothing but a bunch of filthy tramps, anyway.”

“I don’t know if you can go so far as to say that collectively, sir. I must admit that I’ve had my fair share of female problems, but every once in a while one comes along to make all the bad experiences worth it.”

“I guess I’m just waiting for that one to arrive,” Leonov said thoughtfully.

“Regardless, I want you to recheck those coordinate changes and then speak to your men once more. Instill in them a pride in their duties.

Afterward, have them go over this compartment with a fine-tooth comb. I want this all completed within the hour, so snap to it, Comrade!”

Accepting the chief’s salute, Leonov hurriedly checked the remaining silos and then ducked through the hatchway leading to the bow. He continued to complete the second portion of his tour of inspection.

Just as important as the missile compartment was that section of the Vulkan from which the weapons would be launched, the attack center.

Located near the bow, two floors above him, the deserted attack center would soon be alive with frantic action. Anxious for this fated moment to finally arrive, Leonov checked his watch and increased the length of his stride.

As he walked down the cramped corridor he passed that portion of the sub reserved for supply storage.

This was not a busy area and his progress was unhindered.

Leonov found himself a bit disturbed that the weapons chief had brought up the subject of his recent troubled leave in Petropavlovsk. He knew that he should have been anticipating such a comment. The goodnatured chief had only been trying to lend a helping hand. Never again would Leonov allow his personal life to be scrutinized by his shipmates. This was one painful lesson he had learned all too well.

Though the entire affair had taken place but a few days ago, Leonov felt as if it had happened in a past lifetime. So much had happened since that fated afternoon that the very fabric of his being seemed like it had been torn apart and subsequently’re sewn In place of the old self was a new, enlightened being, free from the bonds that had previously tied him down.

The steel-lined innards of a nuclear submarine was a peculiar place to put his life in perspective; nevertheless, Leonov’s thoughts had dawned clear and concise. How much he had grown in these last few days!

It all began when he had learned that Natasha had run off with that American journalist. On his way to buy her an engagement ring, he had made a quick call to her apartment and had learned of her betrayal.

His initial feeling was disbelief. When a call to Natasha’s mother confirmed her daughter’s actions, Leonov’s thoughts turned to hurt, anger and then revenge. He’d track down the two, even if it meant following them to the far corners of the earth. How he relished the moment when he would choke the life from them.

To think that she had chosen a capitalist swine to take off with infuriated him all the more. Could this be the same woman whom he had picked to share the rest of his life? And he had previously prided himself in his knowledge of human nature! Fooled by the ultimate folly, he walked the streets of Petropavlovsk in a daze, totally stunned by his blindness.

With thoughts of naval duty far from his mind, Leonov had looked for solace in a bottle of vodka. Far from appeasing his resentment, the alcohol had only made it worse. To soothe his buried ego, he had picked up a Chinese prostitute. In her shabby hotel room, the hooker had done her best to arouse him.

Stripping off her clothing, she revealed a compact, well-formed body.

But as she flaunted it before him, a surge of revulsion rose from deep inside. At that moment, having intercourse was not in the least bit desirable. When the prostitute’s teases increased, Leonov rose up, totally out of control. For the first time in his life, he savagely beat a woman. The young Oriental was nothing but a sobbing hunk of blood and bruises as he left her, temporarily satisfied that he had somehow avenged himself.

Reality had struck as he hit the icy streets. Sobered by a chilling gust of arctic wind, he could think of nothing but drowning his fears and confusion in more vodka. It was as he stumbled back to the bar that the hand of fate made its move. Blocking his progress on the snowcovered sidewalk was the dark, gaunt figure of the zampolit, Ivan Novikov. Though he had never liked this man before, the political officer had proven himself a most willing listener.

Over a cup of steaming hot tea, Leonov had again opened his heart. In the ensuing discussion he learned that he had previously misjudged Novikov.

Surely, the middle-aged zampolit was wise beyond his years!

The political officer was able to divert Leonov by resurrecting lofty principles and theories that the senior lieutenant hadn’t thought about in much too long. What a waste were the selfish ponderings of a single physical being, when the destinies of hundreds of millions of fellow Soviets were so unnecessarily threatened! With precise, eloquent terms, the zampolit reaffirmed the ultimate goals of their sworn duties.

If everyone with a personal problem had carried on like Leonov, could the Rodina have risen to its current level of greatness? Of course not! There came a time when one had to sacrifice the puny concerns of self and concentrate on the future of the masses. Only in this way could life have a true meaning and purpose.

One socialist world, free from greed and the ceaseless threat of imperialism, was what they were working for. Without such a goal he was better off slitting his wrists, so that he would no longer be a State burden.

There had been a time, not too long ago, when such a lofty, selfless aim had indeed been foremost in his mind. Because his father had been a high-placed Party member, Leonov had been given a complete ideological education. So thorough was his indoctrination that he had even been able to perceive flaws in the lifestyles of his own parents.

The ideals of youth were soon veiled when Leonov was sent to military school. At the Frunze Naval Academy political indoctrination took second place to such complicated technical matters as celestial navigation and nuclear physics. Later courses instructed him in the trade that had filled his life for the last ten years. For an entire decade he did nothing but eat, sleep and dream of submarines. A series of rapid promotions brought him from junior lieutenant aboard a relatively crude November-class vessel to his present assignment. If all continued well, it wouldn’t be long until he would be getting his own command.

Yet, as the incident with Natasha had proven, all through these frantic times his life had been somehow lacking.

Leonov had assumed this emptiness was caused by his lack of a wife and family of his own. But Ivan Novikov had lifted the blinders from his eyes and shown him that a woman wouldn’t be the object to fill this void. Rather, it proved to be his long-dormant political zeal that was to give him new hope and direction.

At Navikov’s suggestion, Leonov had accompanied the zampolit to Petropavlovsk’s Red Banner Naval Museum. Here, while walking the hallways, deserted except for a large group of curious school children, they studied a pictorial history of the Soviet Navy’s long climb to greatness. The chronicle began in the early part of the eighteenth century, when Czar Peter I founded the city of Leningrad at the eastern end of the Gulf of Finland, and built a fleet to fight the Swedes. The armada achieved notable success, yet for the centuries that followed they had few great victories to boast of. This non effectiveness became most apparent after a humiliating defeat at the hands of the Japanese Navy during the war of 1904.

It wasn’t until after World War II that individuals such as Sorokin had emerged to lead the ineffective fleet to greatness. Hearts swelling with pride, Leonov and Novikov gazed upon a firsthand account of the ships comprising the current Soviet Navy. Able to hold their own in any ocean in the world, the fleet included a diverse mixture of sophisticated attack and missile-carrying submarines, massive aircraft carriers, heavily armed cruisers, sleek destroyers, and dozens of support vessels and warships of other classes. Almost overnight, the navy of the Soviet Union went from being a mere coastal defense force to the world’s foremost naval power.

Leonov was in the midst of expounding on this when Novikov led him into an empty hallway and, in a hushed tone, told him of a conspiracy that threatened the fleet’s very existence. His heart pounded as the zampolit relayed to him what he knew of General Secretary Viktor Rodin’s plans to disband this awesome force once and for all.

Prompted by an insanity that they couldn’t begin to fathom, Rodin actually thought that Russia could disarm itself without fearing a threat from the imperialists.

His voice quivering with passion, Novikov swore that all he was revealing was true, told to him personally by various members of the government occupying the highest, most respected offices. The zampolit almost broke into tears as he reflected upon the great sacrifices the Rodina had made to achieve this pinnacle of naval success. To strip it bare now, with a mere promise by the Yankees to do likewise, would be the act of a madman! Leonov heartily agreed.

Outside the museum, though the arctic wind still blew in frigid gusts, Leonov hardly noticed the cold as Ivan Novikov revealed an operation designed to defy their Premier’s foolish scheme.

Counterforce was a project whose simplistic vision would change the world for all time to come. Well versed in the strategy underlying a surgical nuclear first strike, Leonov shivered in an awareness of the brilliance of the scheme. With a minimum of bloodshed, the earth’s population would be free to reap the benefits of a single communist order. Surely, a few casualties now would be nothing compared to the slaughter that would soon. follow in the wake of Rodin’s sellout.

Without a single misgiving, the senior lieutenant had pledged to aid the zampolit in all that he asked.

After an oath of secrecy was exchanged, Leonov had followed Novikov into the bowels of Petropavlovsk’s KGB headquarters. Here he received an intricate briefing.

As Leonov now climbed the flight of stairs leading to the Vulkan’s attack center, he thought back to these events and shuddered. Before that encounter he had only been half alive. Since then, weak, selfish emotions had been wrenched from his body and buried in the wastes of a past life. Today, it was a new, enlightened Vasili Leonov who walked the sub’s deck.

No longer would base emotions get in his way. Now he had a goal to lead him unerringly onward. And how swiftly the attainment of this goal was proceeding!

At the moment, only a few short hours stood between the Vulkan and its final launch position. Not even the vessel’s weapons chief was included in their plotting.

The ultimate test of their power had come when the captain melted right before their eyes. Petyr Valenko was representative of all that was lacking in the officer corps. Unable to comprehend the grandeur of their vision, the captain had attempted a feeble show of resistance. It was because of the weakness of his convictions that he had subsequently failed. Conscious that no further obstacle now lay between them and their great scheme’s attainment, the senior lieutenant soundlessly ducked through the attack center’s open hatchway.

Leonov quickly spotted a familiar figure hunched intensely over a computer monitor screen in the compartment’s far wall. His puzzlement turned to concern as he realized that the console was for the warhead targeting system. Since the which man had no business there, the senior lieutenant snuck up behind Stefan Kuzmin and carefully peered over his shoulder. Only after catching a glance of the screen’s contents did Leonov break the hushed stillness.

“Interesting reading, isn’t it Comrade Warrant Officer?”

Startled, Stefan looked up with a shock. Before he could reply, Leonov said, “Spare me the excuses, Kuzmin. I’m well aware that the material you’re reading is of the utmost sensitivity. In fact, there are only three individuals on the Vulkan who are trusted with this particular access code. For such a traitorous act, I could shoot you right on the spot. But perhaps you’d — like to tell me what this is all about, before forcing me to such an extreme.”

Cautiously, Kuzmin turned to meet the senior lieutenant’s hard stare.

Perceiving that Leonov was too smart for any type of lie, he decided to confront him with the truth.

“I think there’s some confusion here as to who’s the traitor. Comrade Leonov. You didn’t really think that you could get by with this mad scheme, did you?”

“Whatever are you babbling about, Kuzmin? Quit changing the subject and tell me how you got this access code!”

Kuzmin took a deep breath and replied matter-of factly “We are most aware of your mutinous desires, Comrade Senior Lieutenant. I am to inform you that you no longer have control of this ship to do as you want.”

Leonov took a step backward and stifled a laugh.

“So now you’re giving me orders. Comrade Warrant Officer? Answer my original question, or risk instant arrest on charges of treason!” Deciding to go ahead with his bluff, Kuzmin said, “The Captain has informed us where the real source of treason exists. Both yourself and Ivan Novikov are asked to surrender without further violence.”

Unable to constrain his rising impatience, Leonov’s face reddened.

“That’s enough of this impertinence!

You are to consider yourself under detention. As of this moment, you are relieved of all your duties as warrant officer.”

As Leonov reached out to activate the intercom and enforce these orders, Kuzmin stood and knocked his hand away.

“Why, you insolent fool! I’ll see you hung for this!”

The Senior Lieutenant moved in to pin Kuzmin down. The which man was not about to surrender so easily. Stepping aside, he deflected Leonov’s hand with his left forearm, then jabbed him hard in the abdomen with his right fist. The blow temporarily knocked the wind out of Leonov. As he bent over, struggling for breath, his reddened face contorted into a painful sneer. Still gasping for air, Leonov managed to stand and swing out with a series of vicious left jabs.

Surprised by the quickness of Leonov’s recovery and his punches, Kuzmin stepped into a powerful right hook aimed squarely at__his““Jaw. Two more punches connected with his mouth and his nose. As blood streamed into his mouth, the which man knew he’d have to do something drastic to bring the senior officer down. Since he had always been a much better wrestler than a boxer, he tucked his head down and charged forward.

The attack center’s cramped confines served as his ally. In an attempt to step away from Kuzmin’s charge, Leonov stumbled over a deck-mounted chair and went crashing to the floor. The warrant officer took immediate advantage and flung himself down on Leonov’s stunned body. Rolling him onto his back, Kuzmin was able to pin down his left arm.

Leonov was aware of his desperate situation. In a last-ditch effort to save himself, he reached out with his right hand and blindly groped along the floorboard.

He could hardly believe it when his fingers latched onto the cold steel shaft of a large wrench. For once he was thankful for the sloppy incompetence of the crew member who had left the tool there. Utilizing the last of his strength, he swung the wrench upward and cracked its tip into the side of his adversary’s head. There was a dull thud and a loud groan as Stefan Kuzmin crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Leonov hastily pushed the inert body off of his own.

Oblivious to a variety of throbbing aches and pains, he managed to stand and briefly scanned the damage done by their scuffle. No equipment appeared disturbed, yet the deck was wet and sticky from the blood that still streamed from the which man nose and mouth. That could be cleaned up soon enough, and there would be no sign that the battle had ever happened.

The senior lieutenant reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of white surgical tape. Before applying it to his victim’s wrists and ankles, he turned to pick up the intercom. He activated the handset and spoke into its receiver breathlessly.

“Comrade Novikov, it’s Leonov. We seem to have one small problem.

Stefan Kuzmin has somehow stumbled on to our plans…. No, I’m almost certain that this is an isolated case. If you can get down here with a stretcher and blanket, we can wrap up what’s left of the mwhm&n and dump him with the captain…. Yes, Comrade, that’s an excellent idea.

By announcing that both men have come down with infectious hepatitis, who would question a proper quarantine? Please get down here quickly, though.”

As he hung up, Leonov exhaled a sigh of relief.

Once the warrant officer was stashed away, nothing would stand between them and their goal. With this thought in mind, he bent down and began wrapping Kuzmin’s wrists together.

For a full hour, Petyr Valenko waited beside the unconscious body of his friend. Aware of the passing time, he knew that unless Kuzmin came to soon, he’d have to initiate the vital task that still faced them alone.

He had feigned unconsciousness when the zampolit and the senior lieutenant had arrived with the ouch man bruised body. Thankfully, they had left quickly and Valenko was able to rise and begin ministering to his fallen friend.

Finding Kuzmin’s pulse strong and steady, Valenko had unwrapped the bonds and began working on the facial cuts that still oozed blood. The nastiest looking wound was a large, hand-sized bruise that started at the lower left side of Kuzmin’s skull and stretched down his neck. Most likely this was the blow that had led to his present comatose condition.

After treating him the best he could, Valenko began his present vigil, ever aware of each passing second. If he was going to act, it would have to be within the hour. He could tell from the loud drone of the Vulkan’s engines, that they were continuing to their launch position at flank speed. The fact that this position was located in the eastern most portion of their patrol sector proved that their targets were not limited to America’s west coast. Because of the limited range of the SS-N-18s, each kilometer that the Vulkan moved east brought the warheads that much closer to being able to cover the entire continent.

Unable to rely on the help of his crew, Valenko knew that he would have to stop this insanity by himself.

Though he would have preferred to have the which man assistance, it didn’t appear that Kuzmin would be able to rise to the occasion.

Valenko reflected on the great responsibility that rested on his shoulders and inwardly trembled. To fail would mean the possible loss of untold millions of innocent lives. Though he had some knowledge of the assumed effectiveness of a surgical nuclear strike, he doubted that the West would be totally decapitated.

Surely portions of their command and communications systems would still remain operational. Infuriated by this unwarranted attack, the Americans would strike back with every warhead they could muster.

Their Trident submarines alone contained enough destructive capability to give the Motherland a fatal blow. Since these vessels were extremely difficult to track down, they could lie in waiting for months, biding the moment until revenge would be theirs.

Try as he could, Valenko failed to determine the motive that had inspired such a crazed scheme. The Premier had come out strongly against any first use of nuclear weapons. Valenko had met him only a few days before. Not only did Viktor Rodin seem to be a man of his word, he also appeared to be sincere about his present mission. Hadn’t the summit with the American President been convened to make such an attack even more of an impossibility? And why time this blow to coincide with the General Secretary’s visit to America?

There was no doubt that a dangerously sick minority was responsible.

Most likely holding high positions in the seat of the government, these conspirators genuinely believed that Rodin was the traitor for sincerely desiring peace.

Valenko had long ago come to terms with the awesome killing potential inside of the Vulkan’s missile magazine. A trained, loyal warrior, he swore to protect the Rodina without undue questions. As he viewed the current situation, there was little doubt that the Motherland’s most dangerous enemies were inside the Vulkan’s hull. No matter the risks, he had to stop them before the peace of the entire world was needlessly threatened.

Again he checked his watch and realized it was time to move. As he splashed cold water on his face, Valenko was aware of a stirring in his bunk. Quickly, he looked back into the cabin’s interior. Meeting his hopeful stare, was a dazed but conscious Stefan Kuzmin. The captain ran to his side as the which man struggled to sit up.

“Easy now, Stefan. You took quite a blow.”

Valenko caught the warrant officer as he fell back dizzily.

“What happened. Captain?” Kuzmin said weakly.

“The Senior Lieutenant and the zampolit brought you in about an hour ago. I don’t know what hit you, but for a while there I was afraid that you’d never snap out of it.”

Gradually, Kuzmin’s eyes focused.

“An hour ago, you say? Have they released the missiles yet?”

Relieved that Kuzmin’s concussion wasn’t as serious as he had feared, Valenko helped him sit up.

“No, Comrade, we still have at least sixty minutes before the Vulkan reaches the launch point.”

“Then we still have time to stop them,” Kuzmin said with a bit more strength.

“I pulled up the information that you asked for, and first-strike targets have indeed been selected. Leonov caught me in the attack center. I’m afraid he knows that we’re on to them.”

“You’ve done your job well, my friend. Now, it’s up to me to make certain that those SS-N-18s go nowhere.”

“Oh, but Captain, you’ve got to let me help you!”

the which man pleaded as he struggled to stand.

Caught by a wave of dizziness, he was forced to reach out and steady himself against the wall.

“Nonsense, Stefan. You are in no shape to leave this room.”

Ignoring Valenko’s pleas, Kuzmin took a deep breath and stood up straight. This time, his balance remained steady.

“It will take more than a little knock on the head to keep Stefan Kuzmin down,” he said as he gently rubbed the left side of his neck.

“So you really think that it’s not too late to stop them. Captain?”

Realizing the warrant officer’s stubbornness, Valenko grinned.

“We can do it, Stefan. Don’t forget-there’s that new godchild of mine who I swore to protect.”

“Well then, what’s the plan?”

Valenko turned and pointed to the air-conditioning ventilation screen.

“The way I figure it, we’d better not count on the crew for any help.

Who knows what the zampolit and the senior lieutenant have been feeding them? That means that we’re on our own. Are you certain that you want to go through with this, Stefan? That trip down the shaft is hard enough uninjured.”

Kuzmin managed a smile. ‘“I wouldn’t miss this trip for the world Captain.”

Valenko smiled in return.

“If you’re really capable, I certainly won’t turn down the help.

Between the two of us we’ll have double the chance of succeeding. I think it’s better if we split up. Would you like to have a go at cutting the firecontrol system?”

“I sure would,” Kuzmin affirmed.

“Good. You hit the taiga. I’ll go forward. Each of us is only going to get a single chance. We’ve got to make it a good one.”

Once more Valenko checked his watch.

“We’d better be going, my friend.”

Fully alert now, the which man pivoted and began his way over to the wallmounted shaft, with the captain close on his heels.

For Seaman Third Class Valeri Balashikha, the day was turning out to be a most confusing one. It was at times such as these that the nineteen-year-old, dark eyed Uzbek cursed his misfortune at having been drafted into the navy. Not only was his current duty ridiculously monotonous, but his commanding officer was in the foulest of moods. This was most unlike the weapons chief. In the past, Yuri Chuchkin had been someone whom the young conscript respected. Always fair with both his praise and complaints, the chief had been more like a friend than a superior.

But forty-five minutes ago, Chuchkin had called together the twelve seamen who were assigned to the taiga and had chewed them out. Never had the seaman heard such words come from the previously goodnatured chief. After it was pounded into their ears what a bunch of idiots they were, the men were given their orders. Not only were they to repeat the same tasks that were concluded several hours before, but this time they were to scrub down the magazine with three times the effort! Balashikha knew that the military had strange ways, but this was too much.

He had received the worst assignment of all-de greasing the launch tube sealant gaskets. Not only was the work boring, it soon got one covered from head to toe with foul-smelling, slimy grease. Even as a child, getting dirty had driven the fastidious Uzbek crazy. Not one to go sliding in the mud with his fellow playmates, he preferred to stay clean and dry. This was a delight to his mother, who always commented on what an easy child he was to raise.

He would never forget how she broke out in tears when he had received the orders sending him to Sevastopol. Father took it all in stride.

Having served in the navy himself, he promised his son that the three years would go all too quickly. Wait till he visited his first exotic port — that would make the training all worth it.

Neither father nor son could have foreseen that Valeri would receive duty aboard a missile-toting submarine. In a way, the assignment was a compliment.

Only the most intelligent and promising conscripts were trained for the undersea service.

Certainly, the job was of extreme importance, but it would bring them to no foreign ports. Submerged beneath the sea for months on end, the submariner learned to share what little vacant space there was with one hundred and thirty-two fellow sailors.

After a while, this crowd got on Balashikha’s nerves. He was even forced to share his own bunk.

The Siberian who was presently using the mattress was a foul-smelling creature. Raised on goat’s milk and venison, he apparently didn’t know what it was to shower or wash one’s uniform. The odor wasn’t very conducive to a sound sleep.

Valeri had completed servicing eight of the sixteen missile tubes. The thick, black grease had already spotted his clothing and gotten under his fingernails.

Though he had another eight tubes to go, he stopped to wipe his hands clean for some temporary relief.

He sought some solvent and a clean rag from the storage closet in the taiga’s rearmost corner. It was unlikely that anyone else would be there. Still, he feared the possibility of bumping into Chief Chuchkin. In his current mood, there was no telling what he’d do to Valeri if he caught him there.

The cool, creamy solvent effectively stripped the grease from his hands. Feeling like a new person, Valeri went on to find a clean rag.

As he reluctantly prepared to return to the launch tubes, he heard someone approaching. Alertly, he hid behind the door and cautiously peeked through the crack to see who it was. He was totally surprised to find the quickly moving figure of which man Stefan Kuzmin.

The blond-haired warrant officer was known to be quite personable, although Valeri had had little contact with him. Seeing the which man here was shocking, but not because it was a part of the ship restricted to those who worked there. Rather, it had to do with the recent announcement by the senior lieutenant. An unusual broadcast had informed the crew that both the which man and their captain were being quarantined with infectious hepatitis — an extremely contagious liver disease.

If this was the case, what was Stefan Kuzmin doing here in the taiga?

Valeri could think of only one thing:

Somehow, the which man had escaped his voluntary confinement and was wandering through the ship completely delirious with fever.

Fearful for his health, Valeri Balashikha instinctively held his breath. He peeked out to make certain that the warrant officer had passed, then sprinted toward the intercom. The seaman third class exhaled only after making certain that the Vulkan’s senior lieutenant was personally on the other end of the line.